Sniffles on Baker Street
by Wholocklolly
Summary: Sherlock falls ill while John and Mrs. Hudson are away, leaving only Molly to care for the childish detective. While she does see it as mildly burdensome, she may be able to take this opportunity to better get to know and understand the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: For my baby girl Chandler who likes sick!lock fics. I love you deary.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**EDIT: THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN FURIOUSLY REVISED.**

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Come to Baker Street at once. -SH

This is what Molly Hooper received via text very early one Saturday morning, while she was still fast asleep. Unfortunately for her, and not so unfortunately for one Sherlock Holmes, the loud "meow" keening from her phone notifying her that she had a text message woke her with a violent start. It took Molly a moment to realise it was her phone, and not her semi-irritating cat that she loved to bits, Toby.

Reaching across to switch on her light, a rat's nest piled a top her head, Molly grabbed up her phone with sluggish fingers, moving her tongue around in her dry mouth. A dribble of drool perched on the corner of her lip, which she quickly wiped away as she unlocked her phone and read the text.

Grunting, Molly quickly replied back, "And why would I do that?" -Molly xx" although not as neatly spelt out, due to the fact that she was still partially asleep. She was certainly not Sherlock's plaything anymore, not that she ever had been, and she would remain comfortably in bed if she could help it. But apparently she couldn't.

Because I am in dire need of your assistance, as much as I would no care to admit it. -SH

Molly groaned and dug her elbows into the mattress, pushing herself up and onto her knees, still clutching her phone in her hands. "You are horrible. It's three in the morning and I may or may not have work tomorrow. -Molly xx" She didn't of course, it was a Saturday, but that didn't mean she would jump out of bed all sunshine and smiles, just for Sherlock and some mess the idiot had most likely gotten himself into. His reply came shortly thereafter, however.

You don't. And you should be speaking in terms of today, since you are so adamant about reminding me of the AM status we are currently. -SH

Bugger off you great git. I was sleeping. -Molly xx

Yes, as most humans do at three in the morning. However, I greatly require your assistance and you must halt your recharge process for now. -SH

Molly's eyes narrowed and she was about to type back something nasty, oh she definitely was _not _little Mousy Molly from all those years ago, but Sherlock seemed to have thought better of his reply before she could even type.

Please? -SH

And that seemed to have done it. Sherlock hardly ever used that manners his mother no doubt taught him. If he was stooping so low to use them, it only meant he really did need her help.

Molly slid from the bed, giving a lingering, longing glance back to the plush comforter that was no doubt still hot from her body heat. She longed to just dive back under her duvet, but Sherlock needed her help.

Tugging a shirt over her head and pulling on a pair of jeans, Molly pocketed her phone and pulled on a pair of socks before moving into the kitchen. As she flicked on her coffee maker and tugged her fingers through her awful bed-head, she received another text from The Great Arse Detective.

Your hair looks fine. Hurry. -SH

Molly rolled her eyes and downed a cup of coffee, tugging on her parka before quickly running a brush through her hair. She grabbed an elastic from her coffee table and stood at the mirror beside the door, throwing her hair up into a tight ponytail.

Molly caught a cab, though she took her time doing so, wanting the stupid arse to rot and wallow, before she began to feel bad and slipped the cabbie a fiver to skip red lights.

When she reached Baker Street in record time, Molly entered the flat without knocking, quickly beginning to feel a little worried as she noticed that everything in the flat was completely quiet. She even began wondering if she should have her mobile at the ready to phone Scotland Yard.

She bounded up the steps without shedding her outwear, calling out, "Sherlock?" as she glanced about the flat.

"In here," he called, and Molly followed his voice through the kitchen, having to cover her nose when she caught scent of a gag-worthy concoction, moulding on the counter.

The fact that he looked absolutely horrible entered her mind when she opened his door carefully, (she'd never been in his room before and it felt incredibly odd). His skin looked almost drawn up around his sharp cheekbones, he was paler than usual, which was definitely saying something and his normally shiny curls stuck to his glistening forehead.

"Sherlock?" Molly murmured again, mouth slightly agape. All trace of her lethargy was gone, replaced by worry.

Sherlock looked like he was about to snarl out something horrible to her, when suddenly his body shook with tremors, and he hacked a few times, the sound loud and equally as horrible as what he would've said.

He simply looked tired as he rubbed his eyes and sniffed. "I'm sick, Molly. I need you to make me better. John's apparently in Dublin and won't answer his phone, and Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister. How inconsiderate, I know."

Molly was about to give in, go to Sherlock and coo madly over his injuries. God, he looked so horrible. But she wasn't the same mousy pathologist from all those years ago. Sure, Sherlock still intimidated her to a degree, because honestly, who didn't he intimidate? But Molly had learned his deepest, most intimate secrets, and in the process, learned more about herself. Here he was, vulnerable again in front of her, but she was tired of having to look after him. Three years of her life had practically been lost on him.

"Why couldn't you have called Greg? Or… your mother, perhaps?" she crossed her arms and leaned against the door jam defiantly, which probably didn't look so much because she wasn't exactly an imposing height.

Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow at her, though he still looked sulky. "My mother hates me and Greg has work. You are the only viable conclusion, considering you have Saturdays off."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous. I doubt your mother hates you." she began to rethink that thought when he shot her a cold look. Giving a sigh, Molly pressed her lips together. "Alright, fine. But this is only because you're utterly useless on your own and I don't want John coming back to his flat and finding a burnt corpse."

Sherlock appeared delighted for a moment, before he coughed loudly again, gurgling deep in her throat.

"What do you need?" Molly said softly, mirroring her words of all those years ago.

For a moment, Molly thought he might humour her. Maybe even play along. But all he bit out was, "I need you to stop your mindless blathering and to make me some soup or whatever it is that helps combat illness."

Molly was about to protest, but instead sighed again and turned around. Just this once.


	2. Chapter 2

**ONE DAY EARLIER**

Sherlock took the entire length of his flat living room in three long strides, kicking up papers and books and other various things in a tantrum.

It had been only God knew how long since Sherlock's last case, and he was not doing well. Having nothing to occupy his mind, not a complex murder case or even the simplest of mysteries, he became the equivalent of a five year old on a tangent. He was so positively _bored_, and it made him horrible to accompany.

To make matters worse, John was not there to restrain him. Sherlock himself had only discovered this the hour before, his friend having left two days prior to visit his mum in Dublin.

When Sherlock complained to the air that there was no milk for his tea, he was in fact only speaking with the air, as his friend was gone and was ignoring his texts. The bastard.

Having not a soul to text, making known that he was bored (Lestrade had blocked his number for the time being and Molly's was either dead or switched off, most likely the fore), Sherlock's mind became numb after having not been used for such a length of time.

He'd attempted to occupy himself by sorting out his parts and experiments into the cooler John had purchased for, but that was _boring_. You couldn't exactly have a body part index, could you?

And then he'd played around with his germ cultures for a bit, but even splitting atoms can get boring after while so he'd dropped down on the sofa with a heavy, dramatic sigh. Why was life so _boring_?

Which led him to the rampant activities he was taking part in as he paced the length of the flat, tugging at his hair. "I NEED A CASE!" He'd yell on occasion.

And then there was a ring. Oh, Sherlock had never heard a sweeter sound. He hopped over the coffee table and dove into the kitchen, plucking up his phone.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, though he knew who it wad already by the personalised ring alert.

"Right, triple homicide down here, all within the same area, cause of death still unknown although it looks to be about the same for each victim," Lestrade said, sounding a bit breathless.

Sherlock's grin was wide and unimaginably sinister. "Sounds delightful. Ill be there soon." Lestrade notified Sherlock of the address and then Sherlock was off in no time, after getting dressed.

Oh, it proved to be quite a promising little thing. He wished John was there for the chase part, but then it had started raining and he didn't have an umbrella, so he was left jogging in the rain. He knew John would have complained, and it was always annoying when John did that, so he was glad for now that John was away.

Sherlock had ducked into an alley at some point when the torrential downpour had become nearly unbearable, as he was sopping wet and already sniffling and sneezing.

When he was finally well enough to resume the chase, he was glad for his pause, as the criminal had doubled back, and Sherlock was able to apprehends him soon enough.

He then headed off home, feeling spent and swollen and cold.

The kind of cold that worms its way right in your marrow and your joints, that makes you want to climb into a fire, practically.

Sherlock had a skin searing shower, though his teeth continued to clatter together. At one point, he was so annoyed by his own racket that he screamed for himself to cease.

He was well enough to crawl into bed after drying off, forgoing his pyjamas completely.

He felt utterly spent, but woke up at three with a hacking cough and a fever. It took him two hours of whining out loud to finally retrieve his phone and text Molly.

When she arrived, he had never been more delighted to see the now not-so-mousy pathologist. Although, her mindless dribble was quite annoying. Couldn't she ever just cease?

He supposed she wasn't that bad. He even found her a bit attractive, if he was allow himself to think in that manner. It had been _very _tiring, keeping his own mind in check while staying with her for two years.

When she left off to make him some soup, grumbling things under breath, he grinned quite self-satisfactorily to himself, readjusting the blankets up around his bare torso.

What he didn't expect to do was fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"Quit fussing!" Molly scolded as she attempted to readjust Sherlock's pillows. He was trying to bat her hand away, so she jabbed him in the sides, causing him to yelp and glare at her.

Molly simply giggled and pushed him forward, leaning over slightly to adjust the pillows against his headboard and re-fluff them, before pushing him back. He was pouting now.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Don't be a child."

She held up the soup bowl and when he refused to feed himself, she huffed and began to spoon some between his lips. She had to stop herself from imagining a different scenario than what they were thrown into, because God, those lips. They were perfect.

Sherlock sipped contentedly, and once the bowl was empty Molly set it and the spoon onto his night stand and leaned back a bit, away from him. "Now, I need you tell me what hurts."

Sherlock pulled a face, but she cut him off. "You've refused to let me take you to the doctor's for anti-biotics. And fine, but I need to know so I can work to make you better, alright?"

Molly crawled up onto the bed after collecting Johns medical supplies from his room, almost between Sherlock's legs. He didn't seem to notice, but she sure as hell did. Her face fumed, and her mouth went a bit dry.

She had soon realised after housing him in her flat for the period of time she did, that she was indeed in love with Sherlock Holmes. It no longer was a school girl crush, having barely know the man, never ever seeing him outside of the morgue.

Originally, Molly had thought (hoped) his stay would help her get over him. Shed see what he was really like, PR glamour aside, see the man for his true self. But instead of finding a man she detested, someone so heartless, so cruel and unorthodox she couldn't stand his company, she found the most brilliant, gentle and kind man shed ever met.

Behind the front Sherlock put up for everyone, it seemed, but John, Mrs. Hudson, and a select other few, Sherlock Holmes was kind and caring, although compassionate would be going to far. Molly had fallen deeply in love with him, and she wasn't sure if they were still as close as they had been, but it was such an honour to be someone Sherlock counted as a friend.

Shed seen his quirks, what John had had to deal with on a regular basis, and new straight away why they had that dynamic friendship, why John even stuck around. Because Sherlock Holmes was truly amazing, and truly someone she and John alike wished to be friends with.

Molly tore away from her thoughts and pulled out a few supplies from Johns bag, before addressing Sherlock. "I need you to tell me what hurts so we can get a diagnosis, and make you better, okay?"

Sherlock simply grumbled, but complied. As he pointed to each spot, Molly checked it all out to make sure he hadn't gone and given himself pneumonia or something equally as drastic. When she leaned forward to check a particularly large, yellowish bruise on his abdomen, she pushed the blanket down around his torso, not realising that he was naked under his blankets. When she caught sight of him, she yelped and jumped back, falling off the bed in a tumble of limbs.

"Why in bloody _hell _are you naked?" She practically squawked and attempted to pick herself up off the floor.

Sherlock only looked at her quizzically, if not a bit offended. And of course, when Molly noticed his expression, she only dug herself a deeper hole.

"I mean! That's not saying I don't think you're attractive!" She squeaked, glancing to his nakedness, cheeks fuming as she quickly looked away.

Sherlock simply raised an amused eyebrow at her, not bothering to cover himself over. Molly forced herself to turn around. "God, Sherlock. Cover yourself. _Please_."

"Why?" he said, sounding mildly curious.

"_Why_? Are you kidding me? Because it's inappropriate and because I don't want to see you naked, Sherlock! God!" Molly covered her eyes and makes a small noise of distaste.

Sherlock simply shrugged and pulled the blanket back up around his torso. She peaked behind her, and then sighed. "Okay. Good. Now you've only got the flu, you big idiot. Be thankful."

Sherlock didn't think that was something to be thankful for, but he supposed that accounted for the amount he'd thrown up earlier, and for how woozy he felt, and why is head ached. "Oh. Okay."

Molly left for a moment to retrieve so medicine and paracetamol, before returning with all of it and a glass of water. He downed each tablet, followed by the water, and settled back against the pillows.

Molly stood there for a moment, shifting, a bit unsure. Sherlock grunted when she yawned. "Come on then," he said and she just stared at him for a moment. "You've earned sleep." He pat the bed beside him and dove down under the swaths of blankets.

Molly was about to protest, but she was just so _tired_. So she sighed and just climbed beside him. Everything smelled so thick and like _Sherlock_, and it made her swallow hard as she buried her face into the pillow.

"Wake me up and I'll make some more soup later and change your bed sheets in a bit, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, but she was already dozing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Okay I think I owe everyone a huge apology. I've been feeling really drained lately and haven't been in the mood to write at all, what with school and my dog's puppies that I've been looking after, and my parents are away right now in Dominican Republic so I've been working like crazy and I'm so tired lately.

Anyways, I'm really really sorry for this delay in update and I hope to finish the next chapter by tomorrow and post.

Also, feel free to comment and yell at me if I don't because reminders are what I need. Thanks. :)

Enjoy!

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Molly woke up early the next morning, as per usual. She'd always been an early riser. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, momentarily forgetting just where she was and just whose bed she was in. When her hip nudged something hard and pokey, she squealed and nearly fell off the bed again, spinning so she was facing a still fast asleep Sherlock.

Her attention was momentarily stolen by how spectacularly innocent and angelic he appeared. His dark eyelashes fanned over his sharp cheeks as he slept, his lips parted just slightly. Small puffs of air escaped his lips, and God did Molly want to kiss them. The other thing that her eyes immediately focused on was the hard bulge protruding up from the thin sheet he was covered in. She gasped lightly, and felt butterflies take flight in her stomach. Morning wood. She shouldn't have been so surprised but she was. She managed to steel her eyes away and slid out of bed.

Thankfully, Sherlock remained fast asleep as she tip-toed past the bed and into the loo. A quick use and a mirror check later, Molly donned her outerwear to brave the nippy London air and stepped out.

She was glad Sherlock lived on a main street, as it was spectacularly easy to hail a cab, and within minutes she'd arrived at the Chemist a few blocks away. After purchasing various types of anti-biotics to help combat Sherlock's illness, she hailed another cab and made her way back to Baker Street. She'd decided at some point between the Chemist and Sherlock's flat that she would charge him for supplies and cab use, so she wasn't in as much a tizzy as she usually would be, walking and catching the tube 99% of the time, taking a cab only when strictly necessary.

Finally, she was back in Sherlock's flat and was mildly surprised to find Sherlock still fast asleep. She had figured he would somehow sense her absence and wake, entirely disgruntled. But, no such thing had occurred. Sherlock was sleeping the dead man's sleep, which she supposed shouldn't surprise her all that much, considering he probably hadn't slept in a little while.

She had quickly discovered that when Sherlock didn't have anyone around to remind him to sleep or tell him to eat, he simply ignored his bodies messages that told him, "FEED ME," or "CHARGE ME." At these times, Sherlock Holmes derived his nourishment and rest from the air, or so it seemed. And since John had been away for a few days, Sherlock was avoiding both sleeping and eating altogether.

So, after unloading the cartons of medicine she'd purchased and lining them up meticulously on Sherlock's dresser so he'd notice them right away when he awoke, Molly made her way into the messy kitchen. Dishes with various substances that definitely were not food, or maybe they were at some point in the sad lives, were piled up in the sink.

Always the tidy, sensible woman, Molly did Sherlock a huge favour (really, she had no idea how huge a favour it was, considering if she'd just left it, it would probably have stayed there and putrefied until John got back from Dublin), and scrubbed all the dishes clean. She reorganised the cupboards, not moving anything, per say, just arranging everything for better access.

Once the dishes ordeal was all settled, Molly got to work on the fridge, rearranging it's meagre contents and tossing bad take-away left overs that had obviously been long forgotten in the trash. She then scrubbed everything thoroughly, from the fridge to the sink to the stove to the countertops and of course the table, though she let Sherlock's experiments alone to fester in whatever trial they were under.

Once Molly was satisfied with the outcome, she realised just how hungry she was, and how much more so Sherlock would be once he smelled food. So, she got to work on French toast while she made eggs, bacon, and sausages that were hidden in one of the crispers in the fridge, no doubt placed their meticulously by John, afraid his flat mate might discover the only actual food they actually had and subjected it all to grotesque experiments.

The smell of simmering bacon was enough to rouse the near comatose Sherlock. He wrapped swaths of his sheet around himself and rubbed his eyes, yawning softly as he plunked down at the table. He noted how clean the kitchen was nearly immediately as his brain slowly woke up and took in his surroundings. He had known Molly for an extreme cleaner, but he hadn't really expected her to take over his flat with her habits. Although he did suppose it was easier on the eyes, and was easier to pick through once everything was tidy.

Sherlock toyed idly with his germ cultures as Molly set a steaming mug of tea in front of him, and he sipped absently without thanking her. A few moments later, a plate piled high with toast and eggs and bacon and sausage appeared in front of him, and he forwent his cultures that weren't really going anywhere anyways into the bin in high favour of the food. He was very near ravenous as he devoured everything before Molly had even sat down with her respective plate, and she soon quietly tucked in.

Once they were both done, she took away the dirtied dishes and washed them in the sink as Sherlock announced, "I'm going to bathe," and marched away. Molly let out a soft, simple "Okay," just as the bathroom door slammed.

Once she'd finished cleaning the rest of the dishes, Molly washed her hands thoroughly and plunked down on the sofa, only to be called back up by an extremely needy detective.

"Molly!" he whined and she heard the distinctive sound of water sloshing, which meant he was already in the bath. The mere thought made Molly regretfully blush.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she asked warily as she stood once again and approached the bathroom door tentatively.

"I need assistance," he called through the door.

Molly huffed. "Sherlock, I am not going to help you bath yourself."

"But I am sick and you are currently my nurse."

He did have a point, but Molly was still wary. "Are you decent?" she finally asked with a small sigh.

Sherlock seemed to snort. "I am in a bath. Of course I'm not decent."

Molly rolled her eyes, but was about to dejectedly enter when she heard the buzz of a nearby mobile. "Hold on a minute."

She slipped away from the door to procure Sherlock's mobile from his bedroom. "Hello?" she answered upon seeing the caller I.D.

"Molly? Why on Earth have you got Sherlock's phone?" Lestrade asked.

She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "He's gotten himself sick and John's in Dublin so he can't take care of him." she sighed and Greg snorted.

"Well where is he?" Lestrade was obviously outside, as Molly could hear the sound of traffic through the speaker.

"Right now, he's in the bath. Is this about a case? Because I really don't think he's up for that physically.".

"Thing is, we desperately need him, sick or not. May I speak with him please, Molly?" She only sighed.

"Fine. It better be important though because right now I'm his nurse."

Lestrade laughed as Molly slipped back into the bathroom, all the while shielding he eyes. She handed Sherlock the phone but didn't move to leave.

Sherlock spoke rapidly to Lestrade on the phone, before he finally hung up and tossed his mobile into his pool of trousers near the bathtub. "Case. Extremely promising," he remarked and attempted to stand, but Molly had to push him down so she wouldn't see anything more than necessary.

"You're not going. I don't care." Molly told him firmly.

Sherlock simply pouted. "Why not? I'm fine." he hacked a cough and Molly rolled her eyes.

"You are not. You need to get better and that's not going to happen if you're out chasing criminals."

Sherlock seemed to see the reasoning behind her Words and slumped in the tub. "Fine. But this doesn't mean I will turn down the case." Molly was about to scold him when he stopped her and continued. "I already have my best woman on the job."

"Oh?" Molly asked, trying not to sound jealous. "Who is that? Do I know her?"

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. "Why, my own trusty Pathologist, of course."

Molly's expression deflated and she huffed. "Oh, I sort of got myself into this mess, didn't I?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** **Wow this got really long. Hope it makes up for the delay in update? *big brown pleading eyes***

**Anyways, sorry if it starts to drag towards the end. I was really inspired when I first started writing and then I fell asleep when I was writing it on my phone and then I resumed it today and it's sort of blegh. But I hope to update again soon!**

**As always, for Chandler baby. "I've travelled half the world to say, you are my musssseee."**

**Without further ado, the chapter.**

**PS. Critiques and reviews and just comments in general are welcome and if there are any questions, etc, I'll respond in the next chapter! You guys keep me going! 3**

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Once Molly had gotten Sherlock sorted and made sure he wouldn't drown himself in the bath, she made herself at least semi-presentable, enough so to go out once more. She pulled on her outerwear, figuring she'd stop by her flat after and feed Toby, and pick up her shampoo and some clean clothes.

She set out quickly, deigning to catch a cab to fight against the brisk air instead of walking the entire way to the crime scene, as she usually would have.

She still really couldn't believe she was actually doing this for Sherlock, but she did have the day off and she didn't want him to venture out while he was still sick. She knew this case was urgent from the way Lestrade spoke on the phone, so her only real choice was to head to the crime scene herself and collect information for Sherlock.

The cab arrived on the scene in no time at all, and Molly tossed a few notes at the cabbie before climbing out and ducking under the bright yellow tape that lined the area. She noticed Lestrade off to the side, away from the body, speaking rapidly to a woman with bronze coloured skin.

"Uh, hi Greg," Molly said to him with a sheepish grin.

He turned and looked her over. "For God's sake. He can't do anything by himself, can he?" Greg rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Nice to see you though, Molly."

"As I said on the phone, Sherlock's got the flu so asked me to come to the crime scene and collect evidence in his stead." She turned towards the body and pulled on some gloves, crouching. She heard Lestrade say something more, but she was too caught up in the examination to really acknowledge him.

"Blunt force trauma to the head ," she murmured aloud, used to working with a recorder hanging above her as she carried out autopsies. She checked the man's teeth and eyes. He looked about middle-aged, was an obvious smoker, and was married judging from the ring on his finger. His body was mostly water-logged, as he'd been discovered near the Thames river bank, so his ring was stuck to his finger when she tried to pull it off. She rummaged through his pockets and came up with a 2p coin and bits if watery fluff, as well as a gum wrapper with an address on it that was smudged severely from the water and his ID. "Bill Lunt," she murmured and dropped it all into evidence bags Lestrade had handed her at some point.

Once she'd done a bit of swabbing, she put the evidence into a larger bag to make it easier to carry around, and then put that bag in her purse. She took out her phone then and called Sherlock.

He was obviously disgruntled by something when he answered the phone, but he wouldn't say what by. "It's of no concern to you, Molly. What have you found?"

"Whatever, Sherlock," she murmured idly and crossed her arm over her chest, tucking her fingers into the crook of her elbow. "I've gathered evidence and I'm bringing it back. Is there anything else I need to do?"

Sherlock grunted and she heard a loud noise sound from his side of the call. "Yes, you need to interview witnesses and find the man's family. They can usually be identified quite easily; sobbing off in a corner of the crime scene, straining to be closer to the body. It is quite depressing, in a delicious sort of way."

Molly nearly giggled at how odd he sounded by his stuffy nose, but made no mention of it. As if she could when he said such horrible things. "Sherlock, that's awful. Why would you say that?"

He seemed to stop and rethink his words, as there was complete silence on the other end. "Bit not good?" he said after a moment, and the clanging hadn't resumed.

Molly sighed exasperatedly. "_Very _not good, Sherlock." She rolled her eyes. "Look, I have to go. It's cold and I'd like to get this over with."

"Okay," he said quietly, and resumed his 'work', or whatever the hell it was that he was doing. "Goodbye." He hung up, and Molly pocketed her phone.

She took a deep breath, and then plastered a sympathetic smile on her face as she made her way over to the sobbing family who were trying to get past the yellow tape, into the crime scene.

Speaking to the family had taken far longer than expected, and she nearly sympathised with Sherlock in how he dealt with these people. But, she'd always been extremely empathetic, especially towards grieving people.

John had often told her horror stories involving Sherlock's dealings with these peoples, often breaking their hearts more so than they already were. Molly knew that after losing someone dear to your heart, you were in a frail state and Sherlock definitely wouldn't help that, especially considering how derisive and cold he could be.

Once Molly had collected as much information as she could from witnesses and the family alike, the body was brought to the morgue and everyone was ushered away as the crime scene was cleansed. Molly caught a cab back to Baker Street at that point, and was completely startled at what she found.

As she hung up her coat and scarf and kicked off her shoes, toting her purse up the steps to the flat, all she could smell was simmering bacon, accompanied by an underlying burning smell. "Sherlock?" she called cautiously, stepping into the kitchen.

He was wrapped in nothing but a sheet, and held a mug of tea in one hand, as well as a plate with a bacon sandwich on it in the other. Molly stopped, dumbfounded, as he held both out to her.

"What's this?" she said dumbly and stared between either hand, and then up to his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook both gently, indicating she take both. "I made you lunch. For all of your hard work." A bright smile lit up his face, and Molly couldn't help but smile back as she tentatively took both in either of her hands.

"Well, umm, thank you." In return she drew the evidence bag out of her purse once she'd set the mug and plate down on the table, and handed it to Sherlock. She then slowly sat down at the table that was cleaned from when she'd scrubbed it.

"I might have to keep you around all the time. An adept cleaner, evidence collector, nurse. Essentially, you are a female John."

Molly wasn't sure as to whether or not that was to be taken as a compliment, but she did anyway. She had learned in the brief time he'd stayed with her when he was dead, that he had odd ways of showing his gratitude, and complimenting people. It wasn't as if he complimented people much in the first place. In fact, Molly had found herself being countlessly insulted by Sherlock, only to have it apparently smoothed over by a simple, "Oh don't be like that. Practically everybody is." She had decided that Sherlock should receive the award for biggest idiot, beside Anderson, of course.

Molly tried not to giggle to herself at the thought and quietly tucked into her sandwich, realising then how utterly famished she was. She devoured the food in an instant, and sucked down the tea greedily. Her throat was a little chapped, but it was likely from the brisk wind outside, nothing a good measure of tea wouldn't fix.

When she was finished, Molly thanked Sherlock profusely. "You really didn't have to." She smiled brightly at him as she scrubbed clean her soiled dishes in the sink.

Sherlock waved her off, sipping from his own steaming mug of tea. He looked strangely akin to a Greek God in his stance and apparel, and of course his amazingly chiselled features, but Molly shook the thought away.

"You did not have to scrub my flat clean, and yet you did." He shrugged. "I managed to burn the bacon the first time as the timer is apparently broken. I thought John had reassembled the cogs I'd pulled out, but apparently not. Nonetheless, the task was simple and the outcome pleasing, judging by the gleam in your eyes and the smile on your face."

Molly laughed. "Not everyone is as clever as you." _Or as handsome_, she mentally added, and then scolded herself. She needed to stop thinking about Sherlock in that manner, but of course there was no point in halting a train that was already speeding towards it's destination. Or in her case had already arrived.

Sherlock's voice broke her from her traitorous thoughts. "Apparently. Must be so boring." He shrugged and moved in to the living room, dropping down on the sofa with his mug of tea in one hand, the bag full of evidence in the other. He let out a hacking cough and sniffled as he set his mug down and pried open the evidence bag.

Molly sat down opposite him on the sofa as he emptied the contents of the bag onto the coffee table, sorting through what he deemed useful. She'd also included pictures to help him better visualise the crime scene, so he arranged them in order, and she watched as he sat back and pressed his finger tips together, steepling them up against his chin.

She took a quiet sip of her steaming tea and watched him intently as his eyes closed, and every few seconds his head or fingers twitched. A few minutes later, his icy blue eyes flashed open and he stood up, procuring a pad of paper and a pen, scribbling a few things down.

Molly tilted her head to the side and watched him ever more intently, trying to keep her eyes focused on his face rather than on his bottom that was mercilessly thrust near her face. He did have a nice bottom though, to her credit.

"What is it?" she asked curiously and took another long sip from her mug.

"I believe this was a simple crime of passion. Too messy to be anything more. He was soon to reveal to his lover that he would be leaving him for good, as he cared too much for his family."

"Him?" Molly questioned with a quirk of her brow.

"Yes, obviously." He began to pace, his sheet billowing out behind him as he walked.

"Obviously," Molly repeated slowly, seeing it as anything but obvious. Still, it was Sherlock and she wouldn't question him. "So what else happened?"

"Their affair became too messy, and the victim didn't wish for his wife to discover his soiree of unfaithfulness with the same gender, so he broke it off. In a fit of fury, his lover bashed him over the head with something ovular. Possibly a vase. Realising his sore mistake, he dragged the corpse to his vehicle and brought him to a deserted bank of the Thames. Obviously, the water has destroyed most of the evidence but I just need to…" he trailed off then and stepped over the coffee table, moving towards his bedroom to retrieve his laptop and mobile phone

He didn't return for a while, and Molly tidied up the rest of the flat before setting out to check on Toby and to collect her toiletries and a change of clothes, not really planning on staying for much longer, but she did need to bathe and Sherlock's bathroom was admittedly nicer than the one in her flat.

Apparently traffic decided to be horrible just at the moment Molly stepped out from Sherlock's flat, and it took far too long for a cab to come, and when one did arrive, some arse came along and took it. With a huff, Molly walked half of the way to her flat, managing to finally get a cab once she was ten blocks down from Baker Street.

She was freezing by the time she got to her flat, and cuddled on the sofa with Toby for a few minutes before giving him a little bowl of warm milk and some soft food, just because she felt bad for leaving him alone.

She knew that bit would last him because he always just snacked whenever he was hungry.

Once Molly was finished socialising with Toby for a bit, she gathered up her toiletries bag and some clothes, stuffing it all into the bag. She made sure everything was locked up, as whenever she went away Toby, tended to get into things.

She pressed a fleeting kiss to the top of his head and slipped out the front door, locking it securely and hailing a cab, this time with success, as her road wasn't that busy. It took her a little while to get back to Baker Street, but Toby had decided to be affectionate, so Molly was in a good mood.

Once on Baker Street, she picked up some Chinese take-away after she'd texted John for a suggestion, deigning not to mention why she was on Baker Street, as she didn't want him to immediately jump to drastic conclusions. And, she'd let him find out how much of a prick Sherlock was being, just because he was sick, when he got home_. When _being the operative word. She was sure Sherlock had filled up his inbox with whiny text messages, anyways.

Although Molly did suppose Sherlock was being decidedly nicer than usual, as he had made her lunch. She shrugged a bit as she climbed the steps to 221B, juggling cartons of Chinese. "Sherlock?" she called, not sure if he'd been defiant and slipped out. "In here," he called from his arm chair, where he was now in his dressing gown, idly plucking at his violin.

"I brought Chinese," she said with a smile.

"Obviously," he said with an annoyed scrape of his bow on the strings of his instrument. Apparently he'd decided to become a prick again, but Molly did find it funny that his nose was all stuffy when he spoke.

"Have you taken any of the medicine I picked up for you?" she asked as she leaned over the table, unloading the cartons of food onto the table.

"No," he sniffled and she turned to look at him, because for some reason she could feel his searing gaze on her back. Or her bum. One of which, but her cheeks were suddenly fuming, but she played it off as the sudden change in temperature from the transition of outside to inside.

"And why not?" Molly slid off her coat and scarf, draping them over one of the dining room chairs, kicking her shoes off near the stairs.

Sherlock huffed and rubbed at his nose. "Because I don't want to."

Molly rolled her eyes. "So I pretty much wasted money on you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, just began to play a slow song.

Molly sighed and dished out some food onto a plate, bringing it to him. He sniffed and looked up at her. "I ate Thursday."

"It's Saturday," she pressed, and shook it lightly in front of his face, extending the fork she'd also brought over.

"I'm not hungry," he all but whined.

Molly gave him a stern look, and she wasn't even sure of where she'd mustered it from because this was still _Sherlock bloody Holmes_, the man she'd been in love with for years.

He simply scowled, but lifted both the plate and the fork from her, setting aside his instrument. Molly beamed, clearly satisfied as he began to shovel food into his mouth.

Sherlock seemed to realise then just how hungry he was, because he devoured every speck of food from the plate.

Molly rubbed warmth back into her hands and then shovelled some food onto her own plate, sitting down opposite Sherlock in John's armchair. She tucked quietly, eating decidedly slower and less messy than Sherlock.

After a few moments, Molly felt Sherlock's searing gaze back on her, and she looked up, just as he thrust himself forward and plucked up a piece of lemon chicken from her plate, dropping it into his mouth. Molly let out a squawk and glared at Sherlock firmly.

"Go get your own food, you big idiot." She huddled up and cupped her arm around her plate possessively.

"I don't feel like getting up," he said boredly, and then lounged on the arm chair, letting his lanky legs fall everywhere.

Once Molly was done, she cleaned up her dishes and put away the leftover lot of food, gathering up her toiletry bag. "I'm going to shower," she announced, still a little bit angry at Sherlock for stealing her food.

He simply nodded, too enthralled by some crap telly programme he'd switched on at some point.

Molly rolled her eyes and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This awfully short and I'm sorry. I'll try and make it up!**

**Sherlock is a very naughty boy in this chapter...**

**As always, thanks for the support! **

**Reviews are welcomed, obviously! I love reading what you guys have to say. *coughs and nudges inconspicuously***

**Okay I'm getting side tracked from my English assignment. ENJOY!**

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Sherlock found his mind wandering as he heard the tap in the bathroom flick on. He imagined Molly meticulously undressing herself, stepping under the steamy spray of water.

He shivered, but it wasn't because he was cold.

A soft gust of air left his parted lips, and another shiver crawled up his spine as he heard something drop, most likely a bottle of shampoo, and Molly cussed softly. It startled to him a degree, as he would have never guessed his pathologist would have such a filthy mouth.

It made him grin.

Sherlock wished he could remain impartial to Molly, but despite his best efforts, he was still a man and Molly was Molly.

Before he realised what he was doing, Sherlock's hand had snaked down, into the folds of his sheet where he was now semi-hard. Taking hold of himself, now released from the confines of the sheets and touched by the cold air, he groaned softly, nearly inaudibly as he pinched his soon to be swollen tip, imagining Molly's small prim hands in place of his own. He delved into his mind palace, retreating into a room he hadn't even known existed until that moment.

It was a room about Molly.

His fingers deftly curled around his hardening length, and he perused the various sensual images of Molly he'd gained through the years. He knew how she looked bare, as one night those years ago she'd gotten out of the shower. There were no towels in the bathroom and she'd forgotten her clothes.

Thinking Sherlock was fast asleep on her sofa, she moved cautiously Into the living room, not making any attempt at all to cover her intimate parts.

How wrong Sherlock had been at Christmas those ages ago. Her breasts were beautifully proportionate, and extremely tantalising. Her nipples were small but pert, and coloured a delicious, rosy pink.

Sherlock shivered as he imagined running his tongue over the small mounds of her breasts and flicking his tongue over her newly pebbled nipples. He slowly began to stroke himself as he imagined pushing her against the wall and hitching her legs up around his waist, driving his length deep into her.

Sherlock let out an involuntary cry, and then scolded himself. Of course Molly was attractive, and he was a man after all, but he needed to remain impartial. This was a means to an end, in the most literal sense of the word.

He began to stroke himself more firmly, his breath coming out in unintended little pants. He dragged a thumb over the tip of him, coloured an angry red. How he wished he could sheath himself inside of her.

But, Molly was over him. She no longer stuttered when he was around, and she stood up to him constantly. He liked that about her, how she had changed. But he did sort of miss the stuttering little mouse whom he could manipulate, no, that wasn't the right word. Whom he could /persuade/, yes, much better, to help him with almost anything.

He supposed it was actually more persuading than manipulation now, as even though she often bit out remarks, remarks that he found growing Increasingly witty and thoughtful, she still often did what he asked her. He needed an organ? Molly was his girl. He needed someone to collect evidence from a crime scene for him, Molly was on the job.

If he'd have asked John to do such a thing, he would obviously do it, but Sherlock appreciated Molly's attention to detail, as being a trained pathologist she found the most minute grains of sand, or hair strands, or something equal to such that is virtually unnoticeable. And anyways there was something delicious about the thought of Molly examining a body.

Tugged mercilessly out of his mind palace and back to reality, Sherlock let out an involuntary muffled cry as he came hard, shooting his load up into the air before he could grab a tissue or cover it with his sheet.

That was when he heard the creaky floorboard cry, the one right near the bathroom door, and Sherlock paled. He still held his softening length in his hand as he slowly turned his to look at Molly.

She was wrapped in only a towel, and her jaw was agape. Her hair hung in wet strands around her face. She simply gaped for a few moments, her eyes twitching between his face to his length, before she finally spoke, voice barely above a squeak. "Can I borrow a shirt?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Gah, so I can't even begin to say how sorry I am for the late update. Really, it's practically unforgivable! Life has just gotten in the way and I'm immensely sorry. **

**I really intended upon writing more to this, despite how rather long it is already, but I just wrote the last words and thought "Cute!" and ended it there :P hehe**

**I'm hoping to update more frequently once again! Sorry for the delay!**

**ALSO!**

**This has well over 100 followers now and while that may not be very much to some people, it's A LOT to me. So thank you so much! I was trying to puzzle out how much 100 is the other day and just - wow. That's a lot of people sitting at their computers/ on their phones clicking FOLLOW. So gah, thanks again!**

**Thanks to Rocking the Redhead, Empress of Verace, DragonRose4, KendraPendragon, sneezingpanda12345, magicstrikes, lililoop, Nocturnias, ShareBearTheDeathBear, ThetaSigma14, SJ3GIRL, and elspethpoppy for all reviewing chapter 6.  
**

**And of course, above all, channyfaith! Gurl you are my inspiration. Stay beautiful 3.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock was positive he'd never felt such embarrassment, such _shame_ in his entire life. At least, until then. He wasn't even able to look Molly in the eye as he fumbled to cover himself, nearly slipping in the pool of sticky white semen on the floor as he went to get a shirt from his dresser. He chose the bright purple one unconsciously; it would definitely do good to her curves often hid by those wretched clothes of hers.

"Thanks," Molly said very quietly, almost hoarsely as Sherlock fled the room.

What the hell had just happened?

Molly had realised while she was getting changed after her shower, that the shirt she'd grabbed had a huge spot of spaghetti sauce on it, and was entirely un-wearable.

She had gone a bit flushed initially at the idea of asking to borrow one of Sherlock's shirts (_wearing_ his shirt was another daunting ordeal in itself), and had nearly choked on her own saliva as she caught him - Sherlock Holmes - jerking himself off. He was a man, of course, but truly, in all the time she'd known him, she never would have thought him to be _that_ sort of man.

She'd managed to squeak out her request, to which he complied, looking almost - hold on. Ashamed? That couldn't be right. Sherlock Holmes did not get _ashamed _over anything. He did not get ashamed over using her shamelessly for body parts for testing, or for a quick peer at a corpse. He did not get ashamed over falsely comforting grieving people just to, again, _use_ them for information. And in typical Sherlock fashion, she figured he would not get ashamed over being found jerking himself off. But, she was wrong. And while that wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence, Molly knew Sherlock, and for him to be embarrassed, for him to be _a__shamed_ about something, it had to be a big deal.

He didn't look at her at all as he unceremoniously fled the room, and Molly wondered if he'd been thinking over her. As quickly as the thought had come, she tossed it out. Why would Sherlock Holmes, consulting genius detective, want her, mousy Dr. Molly Hooper? Of course, she was much more confident in herself than she had been all those years ago, before she'd assisted in faking his death, but she still believed Sherlock to be well and truly out of her league. She didn't understand what had suddenly changed now, and why he was acting so positively _strange_.

His mind continuously grated against itself as he attempted to halt the train of thought that would inevitably lead to another erection. Apparently Molly's presence aroused in him, quite literally, a furious libido he wasn't even aware he possessed. And when she returned wearing his tight, purple shirt, he had to stifle a groan of protest. Really, this was unfair torture, even if he'd been the one to bring it upon himself. He could have brought her out something baggy from the very back of his closet, or even one of his dressing gowns, but no. He'd brought out the tightest shirt he owned. Maybe he wasn't as clever as he knew he was.

He'd cleaned up the semen mess, not wishing to be privy to further embarrassment on Molly's part, or harassment on Mrs. Hudson and John's. It was far too tedious, and he was convinced he wasn't entirely himself because of his illness, and wasn't willing to deal with their resentment for the time being.

Sherlock slumped in his arm chair and pouted, not entirely sure why, but he was. He watched Molly intently, like a hawk, rubbing his nose on his sleeve every so often.

Molly curled herself up awkwardly by the fire with a book, trying to ignore the intense stares being received from Sherlock.

She toyed with a damp lock of her hair, lips slightly parted as she finally became engrossed in the crime/mystery novel she'd discovered in the flat. Agatha Christie. Sherlock's favourite author. Agatha was nearly able to trick him. Nearly.

The fact that Sherlock rather liked an intelligent woman was certainly not assisting him any while he was in this situation. More often than not, he'd obtained erections while in the company of Molly when she was performing an autopsy, or performing some sort of test. Admittedly, he even gained them around the Woman, although he wouldn't actually _admit _that to anyone else.

As he watched Molly become entirely engrossed in his book, he let out a small huff, which escaped her notice. Rubbing his stuffy nose on his sleeve, Sherlock picked up his violin out of its case and struck the bow across the strings. This seemed to annoy Molly, much to his satisfaction, and she squirmed slightly in her seat, but ignored him for the most part, as he began sawing on his elegant instrument.

Sherlock's arm worked back and forth, producing the most hideous noises Molly had ever heard. She suddenly sprung up and took his bow from him, about ready to snap it over her knee. "Would you stop that?" Her breasts bouncing in his shirt did not go unnoticed by him, and he felt tightness once again in his lower belly.

"You are almost thirty years old and you are acting like a twelve year old. _I_ was not the one just caught wanking off, so could you please _stop _disrupting my reading? I'll make you some soup and toast and weak tea in a bit. But right now, you should be sleeping so you can get better, so I can go home." she huffed and tossed the bow at him. "I have no idea how John can deal with you because you are wearing my nerves _thin_."

With that, she dropped back into her chair, ignoring him for the better part of the night.

This of course only made Sherlock amp up his guerrilla tactics. A part from sawing on his normally elegant sounding instrument, Sherlock would purposefully do things so Molly would have to look up at him, even for just a second. Really, what else could he do to satiate his boredom when he could not leave the flat at present? "Doctor's orders," Molly had nearly purred earlier in a satisfied tone, before she had begun to shun him, obviously taking sick pleasure in causing him to distress. He was the equivalent of a child with it's toy taken away.

Sherlock devised another plot in his mind while Molly was scrubbing clean some dishes, her breasts bobbing pleasantly in his shirt. He wanted to do something that would make her resume speaking to him. It was tedious when she was angry with him, which seemed to be happening a lot lately.

Sherlock wiped his nose on the silk sleeve of his dressing gown that at some point he'd changed into, sliding up from his seat. People like when others apologise to them, he reasoned. So that is exactly what he would do.

"Molly," his voice sounded odd because of his sore throat and stuffy nose. "I am sorry for my indecent behaviour. It was not my intention to offend you." he bowed his head slightly. "Please accept my apology."

Molly had made her mission to ignore Sherlock all day. She really was so upset and confused. She didn't know what Sherlock wanking meant, she didn't know what him acting bashful and ashamed was about. She just didn't _understand_.

She was doing a damn good job at ignoring him, despite the numerous, childish antics he subjected her to. She was tempted to just leave and force him into his own devices, but she wasn't that awful, knowing he'd probably putrefy or something equally as drastic.

And then he had come over with that stupidly handsomely adorable face. And God, he was looking at her with those puppy dog eyes and she meant to say, "No I won't," but it came out, "Of course I will". Damn it.

Molly wiped her hands on a tea towel and planted her hands on her hips. "Why?" she said simply. Why were you wanking? she meant.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, looking a bit off his guard. "I..." he trailed off and then blushed. "I believe I am attracted to you, Molly Hooper."

Molly's nose wrinkled bit. Surely he had said something completely off that, and she was the one being ludicrous? But no. He had said it. And Molly was dumbfounded. Her shoulders sagged and she bit her lower lip. "You- you what?"

Sherlock scowled and huffed, for he hated to repeat himself. "I am attracted to you. I gained an erection, which is standard in male anatomy when one is attracted to someone and they are in, ah, compromising situations." he rubbed the back of his neck and blushed - actually blushed! Molly had never seen anything like it before, to light rosy warmth flooding into the porcelain pallor of his cheeks. It really was adorable, but she bit her tongue, knowing the revelation would be less than satisfying to Sherlock, and she'd rather not have him in a bad mood, especially when he was apologising to her. Really, when did that ever happen? Was it a blue moon?

Molly thought she better check outside. She went over to the window in the living room and peered out. Nope. All she saw was a silver sliver in the sky, along a backdrop of pure darkness. Of course, the London lights drowned out the stars. She loved the stars, but only ever got to see them when she went out of town.

"Nope, not a blue moon," she muttered and returned to stand before Sherlock, who looked extremely puzzled. He looked absolutely ridiculous with his runny nose, slightly red eyes, and flushed cheeks. Even the tip of his nose was red, and she was tempted to call him Rudolph, but she figured that wouldn't bode well with him either.

"Why on earth would it be a blue moon?" he shook his head in pure puzzlement, an expression Molly rarely saw on his face.

"Because you're _actually _apologising to me. Properly." she grinned. "In any case, I accept."

Sherlock blinked a few times, still a bit puzzled. "Alright. Okay. Yes. Ah, I'm sorry that I don't apologise for my… stupidity very often?"

Molly pointed a finger at him. "There it is again! Oh my God. Better mark this on the calendar." she won't over to the crude Scotland Yard calendar John had pinned to the fridge and procured a pen, writing on the date box, "Sherlock actually apologised today."

Sherlock moved to her elbow, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. "Sentiment?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, Sherlock. Sentiment," Molly giggled.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Apologies for how short this is, and for the delay. I was intending on writing more, but I thought that was a nice end to the chapter.**

**Side note, I saw The Hobbit last night, and it was absolutely brilliant! Extremely close to the book. Can't wait to see Smaug in the next one! And bonus, he's Benedict! Martin was adorable as Bilbo. Before they cast him, I never even thought of how good he would be as Bilbo.**

**Anyways, wow so I've gained nearly thirty followers since the last update and WOW. Hi to all 127 of you! :)**

**Thanks to DarcyJayne, Rocking the Redhead, MorbidbyDefault, Empress of Verace, LaserGirl77, Nocturnias, Music4eva1414, casper22, onecelestialbeing, and Guest for reviewing chapter 7.**

**And of course, special thanks to my girl Channyfaith. **

**Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

The following days went by in a blur of routine. Or, as much as a routine Molly could have, staying with Sherlock Holmes and attending to his every need. She still had to work of course and she saw no real point in taking off, in case she were to get sick herself. She'd gotten bronchitis at some point and took off way more than her allotted sick days to recover, so she wasn't willing to risk taking off.

Molly's daily routine pretty much looked like this.

Naturally, she was an early riser, so she would wake at around five and make Sherlock toast and tea. Sometimes he was asleep, other times he was not. Either way, he was an utter git until he was given his breakfast. She was pleased to note some slight weight gain, courtesy of her cooking that she'd been forcing him to eat.

She generally worked until about five, and Sherlock often made it known when she was deemed "late" getting back. Apparently he knew her routine once she was off work down to a tee, and he was aware if anything eventful happened, even if she was only a few seconds late.

Molly would then make some sort of dinner or order in if she was feeling tired, and after getting some laundry done downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat (Sherlock had given her the key, as they were aloud to use her machines), she would curl up by the fire in John's chair. Bed time would follow soon after, and Sherlock always made a fuss over it

Sherlock's illness was very slowly dissipating, causing Molly to wonder upon the consulting detective and his immune system. But every time Molly attempted to ask Sherlock about his past while helping him bathe (She didn't really understand why he needed her help, but he had thrown a tantrum when she told him no, which roused the neighbours next door, so she never made a fuss over it again. And she did sort of like seeing him like that, not that she would admit to it.), trying to better understand the mystery of Sherlock Holmes, he would immediately avoid her questioning, instead choosing to wash his privates, which he knew would turn Molly away with a tell-tale profuse blush.

One particular day when Molly had off, while Sherlock was still sleeping, Molly decided to do some digging. It dawned on her that she had housed someone she barely even knew in her flat whilst he was noted to the public as being a complete fraud, and this mildly perturbed her.

She searched through Sherlock's wallet first, discovering his vaccination record and his I.D. He hadn't received a single vaccination in his life, and Molly understood then why he was taking so long to recover.

She scanned over his I.D. Sherlock Asa Holmes. Age 29. Born in London on January 6th 1983.

Wedged in a crease of his wallet was a picture, and as she unfolded it, Molly noticed white cracking lines, indicating that it had been folded and unfolded many times. A young, thin boy with a plastered arm stood between an older couple with whiting hair, obviously straining to be close to them. His lips were full, his curls wild, eyes an incredibly icy blue. It was Sherlock, and what appeared to be his grandparents.

"What are you doing?" Shot a quicksilver, stuffy voice. Molly dropped the wallet, I.D, and vaccination record, the photograph fluttering after it. Guiltily, she looked up into Sherlock's cold eyes.

Molly let out a sharp breath. "You- you know exactly what I was doing." Before she could blink, he bad come forward and collected his things, stuffing them unceremoniously back into his wallet.

"Stay out of my things," he snapped, before retreating back to his room. Molly sat down a little harder than intended on John's chair by the fire. She felt undeniably guilty, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that her snooping was liable. She was taking care of a man she barely knew.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I'm going to try and at least get one chapter out a week, from now on.**

**Thanks to DarcyJayne, Rocking the Redhead, MorbidbyDefault, Empress of Verace, Shannon Burns, ThetaSigma14, and onecelestialbeing for reviewing chapter 8!**

**And of course, channyfaith!**

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Molly spent the rest of the day secluded from Sherlock. She wasn't sure if utter embarrassment was the cause, or because she was still entirely confused about the encounter when she had found him wanking. Either way, she was annoyed that Sherlock had become so indignant over her snooping. It wasn't as if she'd never tried to ask about his past before. He just always blatantly refused to answer her.

No matter what Sherlock wished to believe, it _was _her business, and she was determined to uncover anything and everything about Sherlock Holmes, no matter what it took. And to do that, she knew she would have to meet with someone of which she had only met on two occasions. His big (according to Sherlock, in more than one sense of the word) brother, Mycroft Holmes.

The first time she had met Mycroft was just after Christmas when Sherlock was identifying Irene Adler's body, and Molly really didn't want to think about that, and the bottle of wine she'd guzzled after the encounter. The second was after Sherlock revealed to the public that he was alive, when Mycroft had showed up at her flat with a huge cheque, apparently a Holmes-thanks for taking care of his brother. She had nearly fainted, but managed to keep her cool long enough to actually carry out polite conversation with him, relaying the events of the few months Sherlock had stayed with her, before Mycroft had departed. Another bottle of wine had been guzzled. Apparently the Holmes boys drove her to drink.

Molly giggled a little at the thought, waiting outside Mycroft's office in the parliament building in which he worked. It was a prim waiting room, pleasantly chic and well designed with an obvious woman's touch. The furniture was all sharp angles and square design, and the colours were all rich browns and light greys. The room was well lit and little bit too extravagant for her tastes, such that she was tempted to nick an ashtray. Unfortunately her plot was foiled, as a young, dark haired woman came out of Mycroft's office and ushered her in, a Blackberry in her hand.

Molly smoothed out her skirt and tucked her fingers together as she walked slowly into the office. The woman shut the door behind her, and Molly sat down across from Mycroft, who was sat at his desk, looking positively bored.

"I take it this meeting is about my brother, Miss Hooper? What has he done to you this time? I thought he was done playing on the affections of that little heart of yours." Mycroft leaned back in his leather chair, pressing his finger tips together in an eerily similar gesture to Sherlock's signature thinking pose.

Molly swallowed, opening her purse and taking out the photograph she'd discovered in his wallet. She had nicked it when he had gone back to bed, just before she had left for work. Handing it to Mycroft who looked slightly puzzled, she spoke. "I housed Sherlock in my flat for months when the world thought he was a fraud. The least he could do was tell me about himself, about his past." she shook her head. "I know nothing about him. Nothing. And again, he's got me wrapped entirely around his finger, because he can't take care of himself." she huffed and sat back in her chair, a little angry and red in the face.

Mycroft surveyed her, smirking a little. "Well done, Miss Hooper. I had you pegged for something else entirely, but it seems," he paused and looked down to a folder, spread out on his desk. "Mousy Molly Hooper has developed some claws." he pursed his lips and sat back as well, drumming on the handle of an umbrella slightly. Molly flushed a little under his scrutiny, but kept her posture, sitting up straight and tall.

"Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you," Mycroft stated after a moment of silence.

Molly of course had prepared for this, a figurative list of questions in her head that she'd gone over on the cab ride here, and in the waiting room. As she asked each question, she was glad that Mycroft did not attempt to beat around anything. He simply told her what she wished to know, and even some things of which she hadn't even asked.

Mycroft detailed Sherlock's drug history, and Molly recalled that she had known him when he had just exited rehab. He was irritable and far worse to her than he was now, but she had been smitten from the moment he'd asked for a lung.

It really was pathetic, her infatuation with Sherlock Holmes. And she recalled how she would do literally anything for him, just for a chance that he would possibly notice her. But he hadn't, not ever. Always the optimist, Molly kept up on her pursuit of him. She didn't even date anyone, until Jim came along and literally swept her off her feet. No seriously. She'd tripped and he caught her. She was so clumsy.

And then again there was that pain of rejection when she had discovered Jim had been using her to get to Sherlock. And it seemed from then on out, all the men in her life, save for her dad and Mike Stamford, who were both complete sweethearts to her, used her either to get to other people (men or women, it tended to vary), used her for organs (that was mainly only Sherlock), or for sex (that was only her first boyfriend, the one she'd lost her virginity to.)

So naturally, Molly had sworn off men. Of course, that oath was blown to bits when Sherlock asked for her assistance. What was she supposed to say? She couldn't very well say no. First off, he was Sherlock _bloody _Holmes, asking for her help, and second he looked so vulnerable so scared and she'd never ever seen him like that before.

Which in a way, led her to now.

The realisation hit her like a brick wall while she was walking back to her flat to feed Toby and pick up a few things. She hadn't questioned Moriarty's past as deeply as she was Sherlock's now. And she wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Now that she knew literally everything she could ever want to know about Sherlock Holmes, she wasn't sure if she was satisfied, or just sad.

Among the questions she'd decided not to ask was one involving his sexuality, but Mycroft had decided to answer that without her even having to ask. "Self-diagnosed asexual," Mycroft had said, sounding rather sceptical of his little brother. "But there is something about you, Molly Hooper, that has piqued his interest. And I would be very careful, if I were you."

Molly felt as if she were treading on hot coals, much against her wishes. What had that even meant? She had always thought Sherlock held no compassion or feelings for her whatsoever, but Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, and he knew him better than anyone else.

When she finally made it back to Baker Street, it was just beginning to get dark. There was a slight chill in the air as the sun sauntered below the horizon, and it reminded her of Sherlock, for some odd reason.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Molly braced herself, lugging her bags up the steps to Sherlock's flat.

"I see you've met with my brother. He's a real darling, isn't he? Detailed my drug history, I suppose," Sherlock sat in his arm chair, wearing his pyjamas and silk robe. He was stroking his violin, and struck the bow across the strings like a child would punish it's favourite toy.

Molly rolled her eyes at Sherlock and set her bags down, bringing the few groceries she'd picked up into the kitchen, setting them down on the counter. "You wouldn't tell me anything, so I asked your brother."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he poisoned you," muttered Sherlock, and Molly just rolled her eyes again.

"You are ridiculous. He didn't poison me. I didn't even have tea or coffee or anything. We just talked. About you, yes. But that was only because you wouldn't tell me anything about yourself." she spun around, and suddenly he was in the kitchen, rubbing at his nose, quite close to her.

"You didn't ask specific questions," he murmured, eyes dark.

"You wouldn't have answered them anyways," she quipped, stepping back against the counter. He stepped forwards. She stepped back. And she was trapped. And then he leaned in, and a growl emanated from his lips. "You don't know that." and then he kissed her hard on the mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Just for reference, the beginning of this chapter is before the end of last chapter!**

**Thanks to magicstrikes, DarcyJayne, onecelestialbeing, SJ3GIRL, MorbidByDefault, Empress of Verace, Nocturnias, JeMS7, DragonRose4, MisplacedHyperQuill, Guest, casper22, rainorchild, Dark Moons and Whispered Words, Rocking the Redhead, and TimeyWimey11 for reviewing chapter 9! **

**It is all apart of my master plan to keep you all in agony... Just saying. ;)**

**And of course, channyfaith, my BFF!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock's day hadn't been a very productive one. His illness was taking longer to dissipate than he had initially hoped it to, and now all he did was sleep, where before rest was not often needed to sustain him. And, he ate much more than usual, which was an oddity for him, in itself.

He had of course deduced that Molly would be paying his brother a visit before she had even left Baker Street. He had a feeling she would have rathered it kept away from Sherlock's intent gaze, but virtually nothing could be withheld from him, especially when she was being so blatantly _obvious_.

He wasn't actually angry, not really. His more reasonable state of mind took over, even though it generally only took up a small portion of his mind palace. Molly _had _tried to ask Sherlock, on multiple occasions, about certain things. And while he was in this reasonable state of mind, he started to think that maybe she was right to ask. After all, she had housed him for quite a while, the rest of the world unawares of his quite _alive_ stature.

And then while Sherlock was thinking about _that_, he began to think on how thankful he was for Molly. Mousy Molly before his 'death', had emerged as someone completely different than what he had initially presumed her to be. And oh, he liked it.

And of course this trail of thought lead to something much larger, a problem he had shoved into the sliver of rooms located on the far, far, (very far), east of his mind palace, something he hadn't wished to deal with at present. Or, at all, if he had his way.

Apparently he wasn't having his way, because the problem flooded the rooms and took up residence in the main lobby, near the grand marble staircase. He pouted (even in his mind palace he could be a complete prat), crossing his arms and huffing. The words bubbled forth in obnoxious lettering, a font of which he had never recalled seeing before.

Oh.

The low-hanging chandelier lit overhead and he narrowed his eyes, looking back down to the word as fire light danced over each tall, loopy letter.

Molly's hand-writing.

Of course he had seen it before. Numerous times, in fact. Notes on the door of the morgue saying she'd gone for lunch, asking him to text her if he wanted anything (he never wanted anything). Boring paperwork sprawled all over her desk, covered in loopy, neat scrawl. Test results in her handwriting.

LOVE.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt sick. Her scent permeated the air, and he had to sit down, folding his long legs underneath himself. He pressed his head into his hands, attempting to block out the smell of iced pomegranate and raspberries, with an undertone of ginger and something else. Molly's laughter rung out and Sherlock cringed. He had never before felt so violated. She was in his mind, in his very _soul_.

Sherlock let his hands fall into his lap, and he slowly, tiredly looked up to the letters. LOVE. Did he love her? Did he even know what love felt like? He loved his grandparents, that much he knew (and she probably did now, too). But he supposed that was a different sort of love. That was the obligatory you-brought-me-up-and-loved-me-back sort of love. What sort of love was this?

The words melted into a puddle, and her scent grew stronger. He felt his stomach dip as the puddle formed up into her. Her hair was down though, just a he liked it.

Molly was smiling, and she came over to stand in front of him, reaching out a hand to help him up. "Sherlock," she said simply and he felt a little dazed. He paused the interaction (this was still his mind, after all, and he still maintained a sliver of control), and mulled over the feelings running through him. Elevated pulse, no doubt dilated pupils. Attraction.

His palms were sweaty and his tongue felt a little heavy in his mouth. His skin was tingling a little from where she'd grasped his hand. His heart was beating erratically in his chest at her proximity, even if it was just a figment of her in his mind.

Sherlock pulled out of his mind palace, perched on the sofa, as he had been when he had entered it a few hours ago, feeling a little confused and disconcerted. He didn't like uncertainty, and he definitely did not like not knowing what something was, or how to deal with it.

Was he in love with Molly Hooper? Yes. Yes he was.

He heard the door bang open and there was Molly. Oh, Molly. Perfect, wonderful, _annoying _Molly. What had she done to him? He was convinced she was a witch the bewitched him into loving her, for he was certain over this that he had never before loved someone so intensely in his life.

He really didn't know what had possessed him to corner her, or even feign anger. Hell, he didn't know what possessed him to _kiss _her. But he did. And he wouldn't have taken it back once it was done because she felt incredible.

Her lips were thin as he had ascertained previous to now, but were soft. She let out a delicious gasp at the contact, but one of her hands went to his waist to pull him nearer, the other going up to wind into his soft curls. Sherlock felt incredibly inexperienced, as he had only shared kisses with people a few times prior to now, most being for cases, so he followed Molly's lead.

Did she love Sherlock Holmes? Yes. Yes she did.

She had never been so surprised in her life, and his illness didn't even occur to her as she pulled him closer. He had her pinned to the counter now and she felt something growing near her hip and against her thigh, but chose to ignore it for fear of accidental tongue-biting embarrassment.

Molly could tell Sherlock was inexperienced, and even though it had been a little while for her, she helped him learn, and learn he did, quite quickly, in fact. His tongue tickled at her bottom lip and she eagerly opened for him. He tasted a little sick, but also of cinnamon and something else she couldn't put her finger on.

Molly felt him hitch her leg up around his waist as he pushed her harder against the counter and she gasped loudly, whimpering a little as she felt his hardness against her, through the material of their clothes.

All too soon though, they had to break apart for air, each other's lips full and swollen from the hot nips and bites against them. They stayed staring at each other as they panted, never moving from their intimate position. And just as they were about to dive back in for more, their noses pushed together, they noticed bounding up the stairs and John's voice.

"You wouldn't believe the case that Lestrade just contacted me with, Sherlock. He said you weren't answering your phone-" Both of their gazes snapped to the door, still pressed together at the hips as John came into view. His bags dropped to the floor and his mouth formed an O, before he drew back a little. "Oh, shit. Ah, erm-"

Molly hastily pushed Sherlock off of her, coming back to her sentences. She wiped her mouth and grabbed her coat. "I was just leaving, actually!" she said and wrapped her scarf around her neck. "Sherlock was ill. Is ill. I'll just relinquish the nursing duties to you, John," she said with a plastered cheery smile and bounded quickly out of the flat, without even retrieving her belongings.

John looked hastily between the stairs and Sherlock, who was glaring at him from the kitchen. "You're not kissing me, mate," said John, who went to prepare a cup of tea.

"That wasn't the nursing," snapped a testy Sherlock, who now had a hard-on he didn't know what to do with.

"Whatever, Sherlock," said John with a roll of his eyes. He'd speak to his friend later, but at the moment, he was home from Dublin, and they had a case.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Umm. GUYS. IT'S AN UPDATE. WOAH.**

**I was, admittedly, motivated by the SAMFA's that have opened up nominations. But ****I'm really really sorry for not updating earlier. Do you ever just get into those moods where you're super sluggish and just go blah at everything you need to do? Plus I've been working and my four year old DELL *shakes fist* laptop decided not to like me anymore. The sound stopped working, various programmes kept crashing. So I put all my shit on my brother's hard drive and reformatted her. Turns out my pictures library didn't even transfer so I lost all of my pictures... Anyways, my computer is fine now. At least, I think so. Working better, in any case.**

**ANYWAYS, I'm hoping to begin regular updates.**

_**(PSSSSTTTTTTTT: You should totally go vote for me in the SAMFA's. Just sayin'. heh heh *nudge*)**_

**ALSO. We're approaching 200 follows! Thank you SO much. I love you all, thanks for the support, thanks for sticking with me, and thanks for reviewing!**

**Thanks to: MisplacedHyperQuill, magicstrikes, Rocking the Redhead, Empress of Verace, lililoop, DarcyJayne, AdaYuki, Dark Moons and Whispered Words, rumbelle4eva, Music4eva1414, casper22, Sherlollians, Sammykatz, MorbidbyDefault, SJ3GIRL, Shannon Burns, Guest, starshortcake, Mione W.G, Dumblebee14, JawlessMonster, Howling Shadow, Guest, ThetaSigma14, Guest, MahfaeraakTahrodiis, Guest, Kathmack, Poodle warriors, Fayth3, DragonRose4, and, of course, the wonderfully brilliant Channyfaith who is my BFF, for reviewing last chapter. :)**

**And without further delay...**

* * *

The days following the intimate exchange Molly had shared with Sherlock held boring paperwork, cups of horrid, tepid coffee, and over-time hours that Molly hadn't really cared to do, as well as the obligatory blood smattered visor and a peek inside more bodies than she could count. She had to of course take care of the three corpses from Sherlock's triple homicide case as well, bagging evidence and having it all sent to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock showed up at some point to view said corpses, but he remained keen and speechless, not even sparing a glance at Molly. She of course knew how he became when he caught onto the scent of a deliciously interesting case, but that didn't help the slight tinge of hurt in her stomach when he exited the morgue without so much as a goodbye.

She'd had to sit down a moment, gulp down some more horrible coffee, and rethink her priorities. She was not Sherlock's girlfriend. She wasn't even sure if they were friends. All they had done was have a good long snog. So why was she so hurt by his indifference?

Molly realised that she desperately wanted to talk to Sherlock about it all, but was too afraid. She knew that even after the case wrapped, Sherlock would avoid her like the plague until he could get a grapple on his feelings.

But Molly didn't want to wait that long. She was thirty years old, far in her career but without anyone by her side. She was a strong women and could fend on her own, obviously, but she craved companionship. She didn't know if she could ever hope to find that in Sherlock, but she could wish desperately for it. Or, more realistically, she could sort out how she felt (because she was fairly sure that she was still at least partially in love with him), confront Sherlock, demand to know his opinion on the matter (the matter of eloping, shagging, dating or never speaking again, she hadn't yet decided), and hopefully move on.

The wishful part of her still wanted Sherlock to drastically change from his anti-social, rude, arrogant, childish self and be the man she could count on. Perhaps even have children with some day. But the more rational part of her supplied that that was certainly not going to happen any time soon.

In any case, Molly was still down-heartened by the fact that Sherlock seemed to be pretending nothing happened between them. But, of course, that changed completely when she drew abruptly away from her thoughts, watching a coat fly out the door, which promptly banged shut after it.

Blinking curiously, Molly noticed a cup of coffee from her favourite cafe sat in front of her, a blueberry muffin beside it, and a note in Sherlock's awful scrawl denoting that they would speak on their quote 'intimate matter' soon.

Running her thumb over Sherlock's signature, Molly let out a wistful sigh and took a gulp from the cup, humming at the sweet taste. She had forgotten that Sherlock did possess a thoughtful bone in his body, and she allowed herself a smile and a bite from her muffin before she got back to work.

x

The case was just what Sherlock needed to distract himself from his treacherous heart and mind. He had nearly forgotten that the two were linked; he'd kept them working as separate entities for so long, his heart never allowed to cloud his mind. However, in some horribly vile way (at least in Sherlock's mind) Molly had wormed her way in, like an infection or a parasite. Though he somehow doubted Molly would appreciate being compared to a parasite, she was taking over and he needed to be free of her, at least for the time being.

The case was both intellectually stimulating and provided a surplus of chases, keeping Sherlock on his toes and unable to stop, even for a moment, to think about Molly and how he felt about her. Even when he encountered her in the lab, his mind was still twitching, spamming, grinding out all impossibilities and working towards the truth. He hadn't purposefully ignored her, of course, but his mind could not halt the processes, even for a moment.

Once gone, though, John nudged Sherlock in the right direction, ever his conscience. "You know, women expect you to call them after you snog 'em," he supplied helpfully, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance as they marched along the sidewalk. "She's not going to wait forever for you, mate," with a clap on the back, John went to grab something to eat, Sherlock already darting away towards Molly's favourite cafe. She would like that, wouldn't she?

Back before John even knew he was gone, due to the line-up in the restaurant John had chosen to stop at for something to eat, Sherlock allowed himself to think about her for a brief moment, before banishing her from his thoughts. He didn't have time for frivolous, romantic thoughts at the moment. John had exited the restaurant, albeit looking a little brassed off, and Sherlock had a triple-homicide to solve.

Heading off on their way and hailing a cab while John ranted about the line-up, Sherlock allowed himself another moment of ponderance. He realised he was bleeding terrified, terrified of hurting Molly like he always seemed to do, terrified of losing himself in his emotions, terrified of _feeling_. Maybe he didn't want this, whatever it was he felt towards her. Maybe he wanted to be alone for the rest of his life. But there was another voice that peeked up in the furthest corners of his mind palace, telling him that he was wrong. That he loved Molly, he really did, and he should admit to it.

But that still didn't mean he wasn't scared. Hopping into the cab, Sherlock shut off all thought process, save for anything pertaining to the case at hand. He would deal with all of that later.

x

Molly waited for Sherlock to contact her for a week, before deciding that she was moving on, without or without him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stayed holed up in his bedroom, and while John thought he was sleeping, as he usually did after a strenuous case, he was weeping. Bitterly and softly, tears running down his cheeks and into his mouth. Because he didn't want to feel what he was feeling. Caring was not an advantage, even when the women he loved was Molly Hooper.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Another chapter in the same night (technically not but yeah). Woot! **

**Don't worry lovelies. It'll all get better soon. The fact of the matter is, Sherlock was raised to the fact that caring is not an advantage. He's always locked away his emotions, but now they're all bleeding through. The crying last chapter was a bit OOC, but you see, he's feeling everything that he locked away in surplus. **

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Days wore on, and still not a single word from Sherlock. While Molly was hurt and slightly troubled without him in her life on a regular basis, the only thing keeping him as a firm reminder to her was the slight tickle in her throat. Gargling three times daily, Molly allowed herself to actually do things away from home, away from Sherlock. Her life was not all about him, and while she cared deeply for him, he obviously did not reciprocate, or so she thought.

Despite the tickle that grew into a pesky cough, Molly even went out on a date with a sweet guy that worked at Bart's and was good friends with her best friend, Mary Morstan, whom was quite the fanatic when it came to setting Molly up with men. She never grew disheartened by the fact that Molly declined every date, because she knew that one day, Sherlock would hurt her. And she would finally begin the process of moving on.

Dinner with Stephen was lovely. He was funny, kind, gentlemanly and handsome. But his nose was too crooked. His hair wasn't dark enough. His eyes weren't blue enough.

He wasn't Sherlock.

She hated herself immediately for doing that to herself, but she just couldn't stop. No matter, she would always be comparing men to Sherlock. And it only made her cry when she got home because Stephen had walked her to her door and given her a kiss on the cheek goodnight.

She broke out a bottle of wine and drank herself into even firmer misery, because she hated that Sherlock had such a firm hold on her heart. She wondered if he was right. Was caring really a disadvantage?

No. It most certainly was not. She didn't care how weak she appeared to Sherlock, or how stupid she was to his elder brother, Mycroft. Molly believed firmly that emotions, and love, and everything that came with it made life enjoyable and worth living to the fullest.

Sometimes love only left you torn and heart broken, but other times, when you finally found the right person to cherish you for you, and they for themselves, your joy only had potential to increase ten-fold. And Molly recognised that, and she held out hope that one day, she would find that person. Maybe he wouldn't be a knight in shining armour. Maybe he would be more inconspicuous than that.

And as she fell asleep on the sofa, curled up with her cat Toby and a blanket, her last thought was, _Maybe he'll be a consulting detective. _

X

It was far more difficult than Sherlock was willing to admit, staying away from the morgue. Molly was embedded in his head like a tumour, always there, always a distraction. And while his body and heart wanted nothing more than to be close to her, his rationale told him that it was best, at least until these feelings dissipated.

But something told him they wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

Sherlock despised the fact that Molly had such a firm hold on his heart, and he was far too afraid to confront his feelings, after having lived so long with everything turned off. He was a cat finally discovering cat nip; addicted. And that was, at least partially, what he most feared.

Sherlock spent his days moping about the flat and being especially rude to Mrs. Hudson and any visitor that happened unfortunately upon his flat, picking them apart more so than usual, sending quite a few off in tears. It got to the point where John came home from a long eight hour shift at the hospital, only to have Mrs. Hudson complain about how wretched Sherlock was being to her ill sister.

With a loud sigh, John bounded up the steps, not allowing himself a brutal yawn just yet. He spotted Sherlock immediately, was sprawled on the sofa, tossing a loaded gun between his hands.

John marched forward then, snatching the pistol up and dropping the ammunition into his palm. Sherlock only pouted, his hands falling down at his sides. "What in bloody hell do you think you're doing? Mrs. Hudson's sister has cancer. You can't just tell her that her treatment isn't going to work. That's _horrible_."

"But it isn't," Sherlock replied indignantly, because in his mind, telling the truth was better than withholding it, no matter the situation.

John stepped back and gave a loud sigh, placing the gun and ammunition on the coffee table and closing his eyes, passing a hand over his face. "Okay, listen. You might not like what I have to say but-" Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and John dropped his hand, glaring at him. "_But _it's the truth and since you're so keen on telling everyone else the truth because you're such a bloody _good person_, I'm going to give you the one up."

John crossed his arms and levelled a glare at Sherlock, who was staring at the wall like it was the most interesting thing on the planet. And for all John knew, it was. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you lately, but you're being more of an arsehole than usual." He pointed a finger at Sherlock. "And that's saying something. Now I don't know if you're- you're bleeding _sexually frustrated _or what," John seemed to flush a colour at his own words, and Sherlock glanced at him, snorted, and then went back to staring at the wall. "But it needs to stop. I'm pretty fucking sure you're in love with Molly Hooper. You need to admit to it, because anything else is just cowardly.

"I have no idea how sociopaths work because I'm not a bloody psychologist but you're my friend and I care about you, Sherlock. And if Molly is what you want, you need to go after her. She's a wonderful, wonderful woman. You of all people see that, and I know you do, so don't try and deny it.

"Maybe you're afraid of being weak, or-or regular or bloody _human_, I don't know. But you are not weak Sherlock, and you will never be weak, for owning up to how you feel." John let out a puff of breath. "I'm sick of seeing you mope around this flat, being a complete arsehole to anyone that dares enter your path. You're like a hurricane, Sherlock. And I'm really sorry. I care about you a lot, mate. You're my friend. But if you're going to continue on this way, you can count me out."

Quickly fleeing the room, Sherlock watched him leave with pursed lips and slightly narrowed eyes, fingers clenched at his sides. John had known him for a very long time now. They were best friends, so of course John would know what the problem was. But that still didn't mean Sherlock liked being an open book.

Turning over onto his side, Sherlock swept his dressing gown tight around his lanky body, because maybe he'd have to face reality soon. But right now, right now he was going to pretend the entire universe revolved around him and his aching chest.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I've never actually written a chapter this long before. It came to 5 pages on Microsoft Word and 2043 words. Nice!**

***shameless self promotion* If you have a tumblr and want to follow me, I'm lennajouisecoleman. :D**

**Thanks to: Rocking the Redhead, AdaYuki, Poodle warriors, KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun, SpencerReidFan89, Fayth3, casper22, priestessofeternity, Mione W.G, chaz1997, deadgurlagain, Shannon Burns, Icemask511, Guest, pjfunnybunny, and of course the wonderful ChannyFaith for reviewing last chapter.**

**Seriously. I'm super flattered by all the love. *hugs***

**I'm thinkin' sexies next chapter? We'll see...**

**Anyway, enjoy, and feel free to review! :D**

* * *

Another full day passed before Sherlock finally decided to grace Molly with his presence.

Conveniently, however, she was now the one sick in bed, nursing a sore throat, a runny nose, chest congestion, and a terrible cough. It was on her weekend off, and for that she was grateful, but something told her this wasn't just an overnight head cold. Still, she couldn't be bothered to drag herself out of bed and to the clinic for prescription cough syrup that was probably buried in the back of her cupboard. She couldn't be bothered to go find that either.

All she wanted to do, really, was yell at Sherlock until he left when she saw his familiar dark curls poke through the crack in the door left open by Toby when he had come in to see what was wrong. She hadn't even been able to get out of bed to feed him that morning; she'd been feeling so wretched.

However, she was far too sickly to even get one nasty word out. The moment Sherlock saw her state; he immediately shed his outer things and went about gathering various supplies. Vapo-rub for one, a pot of hot water and a towel to steam her with, and a bottle of cough syrup he'd found in the far reaches of the cupboard, barricaded behind surplus boxes of tea.

Molly was surprised that he was actually doing this for her, and wondered what on Earth had gotten into him. Not two weeks ago he'd been ordering her about to nurse _him_ back to health. She had never thought Sherlock would do this for her in return. She wasn't even being demanding, as he had been. She had yet to even say a single word to him.

Not that she was complaining. It felt nice to be off her feet for once, and it felt especially nice to be looked after by Sherlock; whereas it usually worked the other way around.

With an armful of medical supplies as his weapons, Sherlock entered Molly's room and shooed Toby away distastefully, before settling down on the bed beside her.

She realised she must have looked awful, utterly wretched, but Sherlock didn't at all seem bothered.

Carefully helping her up, she flushed deeply when she realised her camisole and knickers didn't exactly hide her figure much. While she thought Sherlock didn't seem to care as he helped her over the pot on the floor and put the towel over her head, she saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

His long, lithe fingers applied Vapo-rub to her chest once she was finished being steamed, and she was glad to be able to breathe easier. Though, as Sherlock's fingers danced over her pale cleavage as if she were his treasured Strad, she was puzzled to notice how completely tense he seemed. When she began to entertain the idea that perhaps he liked her, she quickly shook it away. Because Sherlock obviously _didn't_, and she was supposed to have moved on now so why did she care anyways? She didn't care, she didn't. She most certainly was _not _still in love with Sherlock Holmes, no matter how gorgeous he was or how wonderful he was being or how smart he was-.

She wasn't. She didn't care. Or, at least, she told herself that. God, his fingers did feel wonderful. And come to think of it, they had been rubbing the same spot for ions.

Looking up under her eyelashes at him, Molly noticed how intently he was watching her, before she had to go and ruin the moment by coughing in his face.

"You're fortunate it is an impossibility to catch the same virus twice," he said with a small half smile, though his nose was wrinkled almost imperceptibly. Molly blushed, trying not to notice just how positively _adorable _he looked.

"Mm, sorry," she mumbled hoarsely, and Sherlock only lifted a shoulder in answer. He seemed to realise then where his fingers were going, creeping down along her cleavage and much lower. Flushing, he yanked his fingers away and quickly wiped them off on the towel he'd used to cover her head whilst he steamed her.

Shifting back a little, Sherlock watched how tight lipped and awkward Molly was being about the entire situation. He wondered if perhaps her feelings for him had changed. He was unable to read in her that moment, and it infuriated him to no end. He hated having to ask, he liked to read it off of you.

Instead of asking, though, Sherlock inclined his head slightly and licked his lips, passing a hand over his curls slightly nervously. He had of course intended upon coming over here initially and announcing his feelings for her (would she have even liked that?), but now he obviously couldn't do that. She was far too ill for it; he recalled how he had been while sickly, and noted that she was in no state of mind or body to digest that information, much less if she no longer reciprocated the feelings.

Sherlock realised how utterly terrified he was if that was indeed true. His mind through the scenario:

"_Molly, I have something that I need to tell you."_

_In this scenario, Molly seemed much more laid back, and it made his heart beat quickly, his palms going almost clammy. What on Earth was wrong with him?_

_Molly tilted her head and her eyebrows lifted, mouth twitching slightly. "Hmm? Go on."_

_Taking in a breath, Sherlock licked his lips. "Molly I-"_

_The door flung open and in came John. Confused, Sherlock watched as Molly stood, spreading her arms out elaborately and taking him into her bosom, kissing John hard and passionately._

_Sherlock only stood and watched, a complete and utter mess. Though a confused one._

Shaking his head a little, Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at the unlikely scenario. Molly and John were not madly in love. John had a girlfriend (and he wouldn't do that to Sherlock, would he?)

Coming back to himself, Sherlock's gaze returned to Molly, whose own eyes were downcast. He really had a knack for making situations awkward.

In an attempt to diffuse it, Sherlock let out a jovial chuckle. "I suppose we exchanged more than simply saliva."

Molly looked up quickly, eyes wide and horrified. Oh, there he went, making it even worse. Swallowing a little, Sherlock wriggled and shifted a little in his place. "I'll- I'll go make tea. And soup. Yes soup should be good…" he trailed off, practically fleeing the room.

Molly watched him go, confused at how odd he was being. What on _Earth _had gotten into him? First, he was actually being helpful and fixing a mess that he initially started by becoming ill in the first place. Second, he was being _so _awkward and only making the situation worse. And third, he actually seemed _flustered_ when he mentioned their kiss. Well, he didn't exactly mention it, in so many words, but he was definitely implying about.

God, she didn't need this stress right now. Her head was throbbing, so she tossed back two Advil that Sherlock had brought her at some point, along with an icy glass of water. The condensation on the side of the glass dripped down onto her thighs, as well as made her fingers slippery, but she felt so parched she ignored it, swallowing down the entire thing. Setting down the cup then, she sprawled out in bed, combing her fingers through her hair.

She needed to sort out how she felt about Sherlock because clearly, no matter how hard she tried to get over him or ignore her feelings, they were not going away. And she realised that perhaps he had feelings for her as well. Knowing from experience, Sherlock avoided things he didn't understand, or didn't want to admit. And he had been avoiding her for the past few weeks.

Molly had never been so confused in her life. She didn't in the least bit have low self-esteem, not anymore at least, but she wasn't deluded either. Sherlock was _gorgeous_. He was so smart, so clever. So utterly amazing. So why would he be interested in her? He probably could have any woman he wanted, and she imagined he could find better looking pathologists, if that's the only thing that drew him to her.

Shaking her head, Molly let out a small sigh. She didn't even know for sure how Sherlock felt, so there really was no use pining over it. Her headache was gone in a few minutes, and for that she was thankful, so she wasn't going to make it return by thinking too much.

Sherlock came back into her room a few minutes later, the sleeves of his aubergine dress shirt rolled up past his elbows, carrying a tray of tea, biscuits (no doubt for himself as they were conveniently his favourite; she'd learned to keep them in her cupboard at all times to avoid his constant pouting when he showed up unannounced), sandwiches, and soup. Bits of curls hung around his forehead, while others were tucked behind his ears. Did he always have to look so irresistible?

Swallowing a little, Molly wriggled up into a sitting position, crossing her legs at the ankles. Sherlock set the tray down on her nightstand, pouring out the tea and taking the bowl of biscuits and a few sandwiches off the plate. He placed the tray on her lap, and then retreated to an arm chair in the corner of her room.

"Thanks," Molly murmured, voice a little less hoarse due to the steaming and the Vapo-rub. Molly was also thankful for that, and especially thankful, if not a little awe-struck, that Sherlock paid attention to how she liked her sandwiches made.

Molly ate slowly and carefully, the soup and tea both burning and soothing her throat. When she was all finished, she leaned over the bed and set the tray down on the floor, sprawling back out on her back, hands on her stomach.

"Thanks again, Sherlock," she murmured tiredly. "You really didn't have to do all of this."

Sherlock shrugged a little, but he could already see she was falling asleep. Being not the least bit tired himself, Sherlock decided to do some pillaging around her flat.

* * *

While Molly slept on, Sherlock rummaged through her drawers, slipping a pair of lacy skull knickers into his pocket without even really registering what he was doing. He imagined what Molly would look like in them, but quickly had to think on other matters before things became a little too… hard.

He discovered her collection of neatly organised sex toys in a shoe box under her bed, and without even really thinking on how it could be taken if Molly discovered him doing so, he smelled them, and then licked them. She hadn't cleaned them recently.

He stored them back under the bed, feeling a little worried and disgusted with himself.

Sherlock rummaged through her closet, discovering an incredibly sexy, low cut red dress with a slit up the thigh. He shivered a little at the thought of her in it, the skull knickers peeking out just marginally.

He escaped the room then, searching around the rest of her flat. Nothing much had changed, except for a few additions to her book collection, a basket of dirty laundry in the corner, some new DVD's.

Toby yowled loudly at Sherlock, indicating that he was hungry, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the feline, giving him a little bit of food and water before flopping down on the sofa.

Taking Molly's balled up knickers from his pocket, Sherlock stretched them out and just stared at them a moment, before balling them up again and curling up on the sofa.

He had nothing better to do other than watch some crap telly and order Chinese for when Molly woke up. He cleaned up a bit in the flat purely out of boredom, did her laundry for her, and then had a shower, not even refraining from jerking off to the idea of her in those lacy skull knickers in her own house.

Sherlock would speak to her soon about how he felt. Just not right now.


End file.
